


Papa III's shy sub

by KassieProphet



Series: Ghost Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost B.C.
Genre: Aftercare, Cuddles, D/s, Feeding, Fingering, Gender Neutral, Kneeling, Light BDSM, Other, Penetration, Reader-Insert, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 14:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: Tumblr Prompts:Do you have any headcanons about how Papa III would be in bed with a subby, shy s/o?
Relationships: Papa Emeritus III/Reader
Series: Ghost Tumblr Prompts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536134
Kudos: 47





	Papa III's shy sub

Papa knows for you it’s more about you pleasing him than any kind of impact play—sure he’s had lovers who craved the rod, but he’s mostly into whatever elicits the most beautiful moans from his subs.

But he wouldn’t just bring you to bed—this isn’t the road and you’re not one of his tour groupies. He wants to create a mood for you that takes you out of your own head so that you’re not tense and shut off in bed.

You arrive at his quarters for an early dinner. He greets you at the door and you see that he’s already changed out of his suit and is in his satin loungewear. He’s happy to see you and takes your face between his gloved hands to place a firm kiss on your lips.

“We get comfortable tonight, no?” he says while stroking your cheekbones. He looks you up and down, noting your nice—but constricting—evening wear. Reaching behind you, he grabs a hanger off one of the ornate sconces. It’s an article of similar satin loungewear in your size.

“We get you out of this, yes?” Papa says while plucking at your top. “And into this.” He sways the fabric in front of you.

You reach out for it and he play-bites at the air in front of your fingers, causing you to startle and giggle.

There is mirth in his incongruous eyes—he’s pleased he made you laugh.

“I kid, I kid,” he says actually handing over the garment. “Please,” he gestures to his bedroom.

You take the article—careful to hold it aloft so as not to drag on the floor—and make your way through the double doors of his bed chamber. When you turn to look over your shoulder you notice that Papa is looking straight at your ass. A heated blush rises to your cheeks—you never get over his blatant desire for you. He just winks at you, not even sorry to have been caught.

Behind his doors you’re quick to change, eager to return to his presence. You neatly fold your clothes and place them on “your” chair—though Papa can be a bit of a slob when it comes to leaving his clothes about, he doesn’t tolerate the same laziness from you.

(When asked why he just waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and told you that _It’s different_.)

As usual, the material feels nice, way nicer than any fabric you own. It’s fitted, but loose; comfortable, but flattering; and obviously tailored to your body. You smooth it down—even though there aren’t any wrinkles—and make your way back to his main quarters.

The fire is going, and the table is set for company. You notice, however, that there is only one place setting, and a thrill races through you. At the head of the table Papa is draped over his chair, legs spread, wine in hand. When he sees you approach, his smile ratchets up to 10.

“Ah! Yes, yes. Very fetching.” He pauses, then adds, “I been knew.”

You wince. “Please don’t say that.”

He looks at you dangerously.

“Sir,” you hasten to add.

He considers—tilting his head—then shrugs as if he already figured that out the moment it left his lips.

“Okie dokie,” he agrees. “The Ghouls. They have some fun with their Papa.”

No doubt the band Ghouls will be sorry they missed their own pay off.

Papa takes another sip of his wine before setting down the goblet and patting the tops of his thighs. You hurry over and take his proffered hand to help you clamber on top of him. When you’re situated comfortably straddling him, he can’t help but run his hands up and down your arms and thighs. He leans in, wrapping his arms around your waist, and buries his head at the juncture of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Mmm,” he rumbles. “Maybe I have you just like this.”

You run your fingers through his hair.

He looks back up at you. “Maybe I sweep all this on the ground and fuck you on the table.”

You tense, unsure what to say—you love his passion, but that’s not what you come here for. He can see it in your eyes, but instead of looking disappointed he smiles indulgently at you, palming your cheek with his soft glove.

“No, little one. I won’t have you like that. Forgive me—my passion runs away with me in the head sometimes.” 

You kiss his furrow and then his nose. He captures your lips in his, soft but hungry.

“Would that I could live on your kisses alone, but I am no incubus. Shall we feast?”

You agree.

“Good, yes.” He thumbs at your bottom lip. “Go get your pillow.”

You feel butterflies at his order and are quick to retrieve your cushion from one of his built-in cabinets. When you come back to the table he’s already sitting correctly and working at the food on his plate with his knife and fork.

Placing your cushion next to his chair, you get into the correct position kneeling beside him. He hums in approval, and you feel the pleasant pull in your gut. There is a quick, but gentle stroke of your hair before his bare fingers are feeding you a piece of excellent steak—prepared just the way you like it. You make sure to take the bite-sized portion with your lips sealing over his fingers, tongue swiping at his pads to clean them of juice.

“Ah, yes. Very nice. You take it so well, little one. So good for your Papa.”

You close your eyes, body shivering with pleasure at his praise, before you feel another tap at your lips. He feeds you like this—slowly and bite by bite for each portion—before taking anything himself. Occasionally he carefully tips a goblet filled with crisp-tasting water into your mouth, his eyes intent on where it moistens your lips.

Only once you indicate your satiation does he give you a little pat on your head before turning to the dinner himself. You lean your head against his thigh and close your eyes, happy to bask in the knowledge that you’ve been his good one. Every now and then his hand (gloved once again in the soft lambskin) will brush lightly down your cheek—it grounds you, letting you know Papa III is still pleased with you.

You sense he is finished before you hear the clink of silverware on plate—you feel the slight tension in his thigh against your cheek—so you’re prepared when he gives you a tap to the head with two fingers. You right yourself and wait for his command.

“That’s my good one,” he purrs. “Now, on the bed.”

There is a tinkle of a bell behind you—Papa III no doubt summoning a Ghoul to clean up the table—as you put your pillow back in it’s place before heading back into the bedroom. He’s not that far behind you—you’ve only just finished perching on the bed when he enters his bed chambers. The bed dips as he sits beside you, and you steady yourself from lurching into him. Papa III takes this opportunity to catch your chin with his thumb and forefinger, making you look directly at him.”

“What do you need tonight, hmm?” he asks, eyes searching your face. “Do we need correcting?” 

You flush, knowing you haven’t followed his rules exactly to a T. You deserve the consequences for that—so you can be absolved and fully be deserving of his praise. He can read the tell in your face and he _tsks_, but swipes his thumb gently over over your cheekbone to take the sting out of his disappointment. 

“Okie dokie,” he says as he lets go and smooths out his pants. “Lie down and tell your Papa how many.”

You go readily and easily over his knees. As he’s tugging down your pants, you try to calculate in your head. It’s easy for you to request too many swats—something you both struggled with when you started this—and then underestimate to compensate. So there’s usually a bit of negotiation anyway. Papa III doesn’t want you to feel jilted in either direction.

“Twent—no, thirty,” you stammer into the bedspread.

He smooths his now bare hands over the cheeks of your ass as he considers your answer.

“Hmm,” he hums. “Shall we go for 40? Can you try that for me?”

You feel a throb in between your legs at his suggestion and you rub your face into the covers. He gives your ass a quick pinch.

“Out loud, please.”

“Yes!” you gasp.

In truth, you could probably take 50. You love the feel of his hands on you, whether it’s his soft caresses or the sting of his open palm. There had been that one time where he’d used a leather paddle on you after you fucked a Ghoul without his permission—he’d only struck you 10 times (5 on each cheek), but you’d almost had to use your safe word, and afterwards you’d both agreed to find an alternative method of harsher punishments for you. He’d seemed even more upset than you about the miscalculation, looking into your red, tear-streaked face with wet eyes himself.

Papa III strokes your ass and thighs until you feel yourself relax into him. He starts slow and with soft swats. You breath out a count with each strike, your blood beginning to thrum. 

_Smack_

“One!”

_Smack_

“Two!”

_Smack _

“Three!”

At the 10 count he goes a little faster, a little firmer. 

_SmACK_

“Eleven!”

_SmACK_

“Twelve!”

_SmACK_

“Thirteen!”

At 20 he pauses to smooth over your cheeks, then bends over to give each one a light nip.

You yelp in surprise and he shushes you. “Halfway there, little one. You are doing so well. So good for me.”

Harder. Faster.

_SMACK_

“Twenty-One!”

_SMACK_

“Twenty-Two!”

_SMACK_

“Twenty-Three!”

By the time he reaches 30, you’re leaking and trying not to rub against his thighs for pressure. The sheets are fisted in your hands, but it’s not against the pain. You know better than to squirm but

_SMACKSMACKSMACK_

Now that you’re in the last 10, his plam is iron and quick—you’re trying to keep pace with counting, but you’re about a couple of beats behind by the time his firm hand stills. You’re panting, trying to calm yourself, as he gently caresses your ass. You feel the sting and warmth of it radiating out and over you, settling into the throb between your legs.

He pulls your pants back up to your waist, and manhandles you so that you’re sitting up in his lap. His hands swipe the tears you didn’t even know you’d shed from your cheekbones. He kisses the ghost of them from you face as he utters,

“You did so well for me, little one. So good. You have pleased your Papa so much by taking it so well.”

His praise is sweet and his kisses are chaste, but you can feel the hardness of his erection beneath the smooth material of his pants pressing into you and the pinch on your skin as he grabs at you. It makes your mouth water, and you long to have him feed his cock to you with as much care as he fed you morsels during dinner. 

You press into him, hoping the pressure against his dick hurries him along. He moans and catches your mouth in a sucking kiss; he first suctions your lips into his mouth, then your tongue. You can feel the fingers of his one hand curl into your hair at the roots before for he gives it a gentle tug. You allow him to pull your head back, giving him access to suck bruises down the column of your neck. 

“Kneel,” he growls when he finishes with your collarbone.

Scrambling out of his lap, you’re quick to get into position under him on the floor. The position is easy on your punished ass, and the thick carpet is kind to your knees. He slides easily off the edge of the bed to stand into position over you. His eyes seems to glow and are a stark contrast against his black eye paint as he looks down his nose at you.

Loosening his drawstring, he pulls his cock and balls out the slit in his pants, giving his shaft as loose, easy jerk. His subsequent caress over your head is soft but insistent.

“Will you take Papa’s cock as proxy Church?” he asks with a smirk. “Take it inside you and accept it into your body willingly?”

You tilt back your head and open your mouth. Again, his fingers curl firmly but not roughly into your hair. His cock, smooth and taut, follows soon after—the head presses past your lips, bumping into your soft pallet, and pushing at your throat. Papa III doesn’t moan, but his hand clenches in your hair. He stays like that for a moment—dick buried in your mouth, cockhead threatening your gag reflex—before starting to thrust in and out of your mouth. You curl your lips over teeth, knowing that by the end you’ll have sores.

At first he keeps a slow, steady pace, using his grip at your roots to hold you still. As his arousal ratchets, however, he begins directing your head in counter thrusts. He works up to you taking his cock down his throat, taking it further and further with each bob, until your eyes are watering and your spit is dripping off your chin.

He goes in for a particularly deep thrust and holds it there—his body bowed and his head tilted back—until you feel close to choking and ready to tap out, before he pulls out completely. You’re coughing and gasping for breath while his jerks himself with his free hand. He lets go to rub roughly at your swollen, blotchy lips and sticks his fingers in your mouth.

“So _good_. So perfect for me. You will worship my cock now, yes?”

He lets go of your hair so that you are able to move forward. He braces himself against the side of his bed as you press into his crotch, taking him into your mouth. You suckle the tip and you roll his balls, which are already slick with your saliva, in your other hand.

Papa III curses in Italian and clenches the bedspread in his fists, his eyes briefly rolling back, before fixating on you again—on where your lips are stretched around his cock. You suck him in a practiced technique you know he likes, alternating between tonguing his frenulum before bobbing up and down his shaft. As well as massaging his balls, you press a tentative finger to his perineum—a move that always elicits the best moans from him. You know he likes a finger up his ass, but you’re still too shy to venture there. 

His body is trembling and he is gibbering in Italian. It’s doing nothing for your own arousal to see him so pleased at your ministrations. You’re sure he can smell you between your bodies. He’s still gripping at the sheets, giving abortive twitches up into your mouth as he circles his hips.

You can tell he’s getting close when his eyes suddenly snap open and he gently pushes you off his dick. His hand curls around his flushed shaft and starts flying between his legs.

“Open pretty mouth, please,” he pants.

You open your mouth and stick out your tongues just in time to catch the strings of his cum that shoot over and into your mouth.

“Unholy father, _fuck_,” he gasps as he squeezes himself through the last of his spasms, eyes closed in pleasure now.

Patiently you wait as he twitches and shudders through his light stroking of his sensitive cock. He finally stills and blinks at you owlishly as he comes back to himself. With the tip of his thumb, he swipes the cum that spattered across your face into your mouth. You clasp your lips around the pad and suck it between your lips. He pets your throat.

“Accept.”

You swallow.

“Very good,” he purrs as he strokes the side of your face, eyes hooded.

He gently pulls you off your knees and maneuvers you face up on the bed.

“Mmm, yes. It is time for me to worship you now, no?”

He locks eyes with you as he deftly pops each button of his top between thumb and forefinger before slowly slithering out of it. Unsurprisingly, he isn’t wearing anything underneath, the hard planes of his svelte torso shining with a sheen of sweat. He prowls over you and proceeds to do the same to your top.

With each button pop he places a wet kiss to your chest. Once he has your top unbuttoned, he spreads it open wide and holds the sides in place with his knees. He leans over, sucking at the hollow of your clavicle as his thumbs swipe over your sensitive nipples. It’s a dual assault of sensation working its way out from your gut to in between your legs where your sex pulsates. Your legs are the only part of you that you can move as Papa III has you effectively pinned down.

Once he’s satisfied with how you’re panting and writhing, he sits up, hands now braced on your waist. When he’s sure you’re seeing as well as looking at him, he leans down so that your noses are touching, never breaking eye contact. His white eye bores right through your head.

“What you think …” he growls. “You think you’ve been good enough to earn this? Have you earned the right to cum, hmm? Only my good little pets get release from my hand.”

“_Please_, Papa,” you whine in response.

He search your faces for a few more moments before playfully nipping at your lips.

“Okie dokie,” he says as he leans back up. Still straddling you, he reaches behind himself as his hand sneaks under your waistband—he rubs and strokes between your legs with clever fingers. It’s delicious to finally be touched, and sparks of sharp desire spike through your veins. The hot tingle is intense, and you feel yourself drool a little as you open your mouth in an abortive moan. His eyes never leave your face as he coaxes out your pleasure, watching intently as your face contorts in expressions of ecstasy. 

“You like that? Or we go for more, hmm?” He sticks out his tongue and curls it lasciviously. 

You never want him to stop. His weight on you is comforting, and his gaze is grounding. As exciting as it always is to see this domineering man’s face in between your thighs, you’re panting from the urgent need to climax and you think you’d surely perish if he stopped stroking your sex and adding a pad of pressure to your perineum. Just to add in an extra jolt of sensation he’s even pressing the tip of his index finger into your hole—lightly—when you’re least anticipating it.

“This!” you gasp out.

He chuckles, and you’re vaguely aware of him shifting a bit to settle in more comfortably. But to be honest most of your brain has pooled between your thighs. He continues on with his attentions, changing his technique up enough to tease you a bit. Your sex feels heavy with your full arousal and you know you’re letting out pitiful whines and moans at the distress of delayed orgasm.

You’re distantly cognizant of his movement, but you’re still surprised when a wet finger pad swipes across one of your nipples. The pleasure zings down your body and it’s startling enough to tip you over the edge. With him sitting astride you, you can’t really buck or arch, so your arms fly out to beat at the bed as you moan throatily in time to each of your orgasmic spasms.

At some point you closed your eyes, and when you open them again it’s to the sight of Papa III savoring your release off his fingers. He notices your gaze and makes an exaggerated show of it, flicking his tongue between his fingers and moaning around the digits he sucks into his mouth.

Despite the dramatics, you can see that the crotch of his pants is tented and there is wet spot toward the waistband. He notices you noticing him and smirks.

“I like to fucK,” he says, drawing out the last word and kicking the “K” while gyrating his hips.

Despite being a Very Good Pet, you snort and giggle: No fucking shit.

He cuffs you playfully, before climbing off your waist. 

“Shall I fuck you, then?” he asks with humor in his voice as he slithers his hands down your stomach. “Would you like that, hmm? For Papa to fuck you?” His hand trails lower to swipe through the mess in between your legs, making you twitch reflexively.

You do. You want it despite having just cum. 

You allow him to manhandle you out of your pants and onto hands and knees so that he can slide a finger into you to press and tap against your sweet spot. It’s such a different kind of pleasure, full and heady, and it has you reaching blindly for another orgasmic hill to climb. All the while Papa III is petting your sweaty back with his other hand and whispering words of praise and encouragement.

“Look at you! Flushed and desperate. If you could only see yourself. So good. So sweet. Perfection. Relax into it—yes.” 

You begin to get frustrated at the lack of any other kind of stimulation, and it’s like he knows; he quickly withdraws his finger from your hole, leaving you bereft of fullness. You punch out a distressed moan and Papa III quiets you with gentle hands stroking down your sides as he presses you down at an angle.

“Relax, little one. Let your Papa take care of you.”

And so you do.

You’re already soft and loose, but he makes sure to coat your insides with gentle finger covered in warmed-up lube. The bed shifts behind you as he wiggles out of his own pants and positions himself where you’re ass up. He puts a warm hand palm-down on the small of your back, then you feel him pressing into you. You’re already half turned on from him fingering you, and this stretch is adding a pleasant sting to the desire swirling around in your stomach. 

You feel your sex pulse and you gasp out an, “Oh Lucifer!” as you clench around Papa III. He moans loudly and you’re jolted forward as he punches into you.

“Ai! So tight!” He smacks you lightly. “Do not do that again. I am no stone, ok?”

A whine is your only response, the sensation of being filled and his hard cock pressing up against your already engorged sweet spot stealing your coherency. You just want him to move. And to touch you.

His hands grip at your hips, and you’re given no warning before he’s snapping his hips into the fat of your ass. He moves his one arm to wrap around your waist and pull you up—your back flush against his chest—and into his lap. He’s bouncing you on his cock, his other hand working between your legs, and his mouth latched onto the base of your neck.

It’s a good angle and his fingers skilled; they have you thrashing your head back and forth as you try to find some way to express the pleasurable dual onslaught.

Papa III runs his nose down the slope of your shoulder exclaiming, “Ahh, you smell so sweet here, like this.”

You’re letting out breathy little “Ah, ah, ahs” as he jerks into you. You’re trembling in his arms from the strain of helping him keep yourself upright and from the heavy pressure pooling in your gut and building between your thighs again. He give your shoulder a light nip and the rush from his bite jumpstarts your orgasm. At this angle it’s a climax that shoots up you instead of out and you feel your hole clench and bear down against the fullness in it.

You don’t quite get _Fuck_ out—it’s more like a hissed F—before you’re jerking and caterwauling in his arms, digging your nails into the meat of his thighs. Papa III holds onto you diligently, but his teeth bite into you harder and he growls around your shoulder.

As you’re starting to settle into the aftershocks, you’re suddenly thrust roughly forward onto your stomach. You’re pretty sloppy, so you let him maneuver you so that you’re flush with the bed and your legs are closed together. Papa III plasters himself over your back—arms boxing you in—as he starts pumping hard and fast into you. You can hear his ragged breaths and slight whimpers moist in your ear. He presses his nose once again into the crook of your neck, and then he thrusts into you one last time as hard as he can. He jerks slightly at the aftershocks, but he doesn’t move much more than that.

You let him lay there on top of you like that—catching his breath—before his weight becomes too much, and you mutter _Heavy_. He makes an aggrieved noise as he carefully pulls out of you and deals with the condom.

“That is not nice,” he pouts at you when you roll over to face him. You smile at him brightly and he cracks a smile before he can stop himself. To cover it he scoffs at you, delivering a half-hearted swat to your flank as he slides off the bed.

“I like only good pets,” you hear him say from the bathroom as you hear the faucet running. “Not bratty McBrats.” He comes out with a washcloth. “Perhaps I kick you out, no? For being not so nice to your Papa?”

You pout back at him, an exaggerated thing, bottom lip fully protruded as he gently cleans your stomach and in between your legs, crevices and all. 

He _would never_ and you both know it.

When he’s done, he throws the washcloth in the general direction of the bathroom, and you hear it slap against the wall before hitting the floor with a wet thwack. He makes a “Feh” motion with his hand before he’s sidling up to you and cuddling you into him. 

You spend the rest of the night with him softly whispering praises and affirmations into your skin. 


End file.
